


More Than Merely Friends

by Dreamin



Series: The Adventures of the Two Hearts [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Granada Sherlolly, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pre-Relationship, Victorian (non-TAB) Molly in the Sherlock Holmes (1984) world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22917844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamin/pseuds/Dreamin
Summary: It's not until he sees Molly at a ball that Sherlock realizes he wants more than friendship from her.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Series: The Adventures of the Two Hearts [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623925
Comments: 20
Kudos: 85





	More Than Merely Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/gifts).



Sherlock was working away in his sitting room laboratory when John came into the room, dressed in white tie and tails. The consulting detective spared him the briefest glance before turning back to his microscope. “And where are you off to this evening, Watson?” he asked, more out of boredom than anything else. _London’s criminal classes are far too well-behaved currently._

John smirked. “Lord and Lady Ellison’s mid-Season ball, of course.”

“Ah, yes, the so-called Event of the Season,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. After a moment, he lifted his head from his microscope and turned to stare at his friend. “How on Earth did you manage to get an invitation?”

“I assume it has to do more with the fact that I’m your associate than any merit of mine,” John said, grinning, as he pulled two invitations out of his breast pocket and handed one to Sherlock.

Sherlock rose, snatched the offered invitation, and started pacing as he read it in one fluid motion. “An engraved invitation, must have cost a pretty penny. ‘You are cordially invited to attend Lord and Lady Ellison’s Mid-Season Ball Saturday, June 6th.’” He looked up from the invite at his flatmate suspiciously. “When did this arrive?”

John smirked. “A fortnight ago. I’ve told you many times, Holmes, to actually read the invitations you receive. You still have an hour before the carriage gets here, I suggest you get ready.”

Sherlock tossed the invitation onto the table. “Why should I bother attending a ball full of gold-digging social climbers? And that’s just the mothers.”

“You really are obtuse tonight, Holmes,” John muttered. “Lord Ellison is Dr. Hooper’s third cousin.”

“And you know this how?” Sherlock asked, one eyebrow raised.

“You’re not the only person who keeps files on people,” he said, smirking. “Now, if the Ellisons are Dr. Hooper’s relatives, it stands to reason-”

“It stands to reason,” Sherlock cut in, delighted, “that she will be at the ball tonight.” He headed for the sitting room door. “Watson, you really are more intelligent than people give you credit for.”

“Thank you, I think,” John muttered, unable to keep a smile off his face.

* * *

Sherlock observed the other guests dancing and mingling from where he stood off to the side, half-hidden by a large potted plant. Anyone seeing him might think he was assessing the room but in reality, he was looking for one particular, increasingly familiar face.

“Spotted her yet?” John asked, smirking, as he approached.

“No,” Sherlock muttered.

John grinned. “Fortunately for you, I have,” he said as he held an arm out to the side.

Dr. Hooper approached, her features alight with happiness. “Good evening, Mr. Holmes. I was so pleased to run into Dr. Watson just now, and even more pleased when he told me you were here as well.” Her hair was swept up in some sort of complicated chignon that made her chocolate brown eyes even more prominent and the blue silk ballgown she wore enhanced her figure.

Sherlock grinned. “Good evening, Dr. Hooper. By your appearance, I see that your mother has thrown you back into the marriage market.”

She blushed – the gown’s off-the-shoulder neckline and tight bodice enhanced her normally small bosom. “Yes, unfortunately,” she muttered. “She’s given up on the bachelors of the _ton_ , now she wants me to marry an old, rich widower.”

“And there are always plenty of those,” he said sympathetically. “But I wouldn’t let your mother’s schemes worry you – no one can force you to marry anyone.”

“Legally, no, but you have no idea the kind of pressure society can put on an unmarried woman. My mother especially will do whatever it takes to see me at least engaged before the Season ends.”

“Margaret, there you are,” a woman who looked like an older version of Dr. Hooper said loudly as she approached them.

“Speak of the devil,” Dr. Hooper muttered before pasted on a smile then turned to face her. “Mother, these are Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Gentlemen, this is my mother, Mrs. Juliana Hooper.”

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” John said as he took the woman’s offered hand.

“It is plain to see who Dr. Hooper takes after,” Sherlock said when it was his turn. The young pathologist smirked behind her mother’s back and it was all he could do not to mimic the expression.

Mrs. Hooper was not happy to meet them. “So, you are the men encouraging my daughter in this unhealthy obsession of hers. Do you know what her profession has done?”

Sherlock did smirk then. “Yes, it has saved her from giving some unworthy gentleman a wife and heirs at the cost of her dream.”

She sniffed disdainfully. “An unworthy husband is still better than no husband at all.” She grabbed Dr. Hooper’s upper arm none-too-gently. “Come, Margaret. Lord Almesby has finally finished mourning his wife, he would be perfect for you.” She tried to drag her away but Dr. Hooper refused.

“Lord Almesby is eighty years old,” she protested.

“He also has fifteen thousand pounds a year. Now smile, keep your opinions to yourself, and with any luck, he’ll overlook your plain face and unfortunate profession.” She got behind Dr. Hooper and was about to literally push her in the man’s direction when Sherlock spoke up.

“If Dr. Hooper is not interested in the man, there is little to be gained from forcing her to make the acquaintance.” The grateful look on Dr. Hooper’s face encouraged him to go on. “Some, not I, may find her profession morbid but medicine is always a respectable field and I assure you, Mrs. Hooper, that your daughter has found a most rewarding place for her interests and skill.” Ignoring the woman’s outraged expression, he turned to Dr. Hooper, grinning, just as a waltz was starting, and held out his hand. “May I have this dance, Dr. Hooper?”

Her surprise lasted only a heartbeat before she took his hand, smiling happily. “Yes, you may, Mr. Holmes.”

He led her onto the dance floor, away from her fuming mother. When he pulled her into his arms, even in a proper ballroom hold, he felt what he could only describe as static shock, but much more pleasant.

Dr. Hooper seemed to feel it too – she gaped at him as he led her into the dance. “Now that we are out of earshot,” she asked, keeping her voice low, “may I ask what, exactly, you are doing, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock chuckled. “I would think that is obvious, Dr. Hooper – I am dancing with the most agreeable woman in the room.”

She assessed him for a moment then sighed softly, her posture relaxing in his arms. “Thank you for saving me from her, if only temporarily.”

“It is my pleasure,” he murmured, and meant every word. _It’s rare that I dance at all these days, and rarer still that I have such an exquisite partner._

“When did you learn how to dance?” she asked softly.

“In my youth. My mother insisted that Mycroft and I take lessons from London’s premier dancing master.” He smiled a bit. “Unfortunately, the lessons were wasted on my brother, but I took to them like a fish to water.”

“Or like a detective to clues?” she asked, smiling cheekily.

Sherlock chuckled. “Quite. And you?”

“Mother insisted on them before my debut.” She rolled her eyes. “She invested a great deal of time and money into making me a ‘proper lady,’ only to see me still unmarried at thirty.”

“A tragedy,” he said, his smile and amused tone belying his words. “Look around you, Dr. Hooper. You are worth twenty of these silly, shallow, ‘proper’ ladies.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she murmured. “I only wish my mother would agree with you.”

The waltz was ending but he was loathed to give her up to some other partner. Thankfully, she had the perfect solution.

“I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I could use some fresh air.”

Sherlock nodded. “An excellent idea.” He offered her his arm and led her off the dance floor and through the open French doors to the stone staircase overlooking the Ellisons’ well-tended garden. A few couples were already taking advantage of the relative privacy of the garden, but he paid them no mind.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she murmured, both hands on the stone railing as she looked over the garden. “It was far too stifling in there.”

“You’re welcome,” he murmured as he leaned against a section of the railing just to her left, his eyes only on her. “We have progressed far enough in our friendship that we can call each other something else, don’t you think?”

She smiled a bit, her focus now on some point in the distance in front of her. “You don’t have any other female friends, do you?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “No, but what does that signify?”

Dr. Hooper turned to smile at him. “Friendship between a man and a woman is different than between two men, Mr. Holmes. You and Dr. Watson may call each other by just your surnames and discuss certain things with no regard to propriety. You and I, however, must still use each other’s titles and take great care when choosing topics of discussion.”

He knew that, of course. He knew all the minutiae that went with modern etiquette. It’s just that he ignored most of it since it didn’t pertain to him. “Then I’m never to call you Margaret?”

She sighed. “I’d prefer it if no one did.”

“Your mother-”

“Insists on calling me Margaret because it is, as she says, what she named me, but to my closest female friends, I am Molly.”

“But to me-”

“I can only ever be Dr. Hooper,” she said, giving him an apologetic smile, “just as you can only be Mr. Holmes to me.”

“Etiquette is nonsense,” Sherlock muttered as he turned to look over the garden. “And propriety can, forgive me, hang.”

Dr. Hooper chuckled softly. “I’ll forgive your momentary lapse. A year ago, I would have agreed with you, but I was still living under the stifling rules that govern a marriageable woman’s conduct then.”

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “And now?”

She shrugged. “Now, I’m mature enough to realize they keep us from giving in to our worst impulses and doing things we would most likely regret.”

Sherlock decided to only focus on part of what she’d said. “What imbecile decided that once an unattached woman turned thirty, she was no longer worth marrying? I refuse to believe it is wholly biology.”

“A woman’s best birthing years are her twenties. A thirty-year-old can still have children, but not as many as a twenty-year-old.”

He rolled his eyes. “As if bearing children is the only thing women are put on this planet to do.”

“They certainly think so,” she said, inclining her head to the people still inside the ballroom.

“Their opinions matter little to those who truly understand how things are. You would be an exemplary wife for any man.” She opened her mouth but before she could protest, he added, “Any man who appreciated everything about you, including your profession.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid men like that can only be found in fantasyland. In the real world, I must choose between a husband and a profession.” She looked past him to the ballroom and rolled her eyes again. “Mother’s signaling for me to come inside. I’m sure she’s arranged for me to dance with Lord Almesby.”

“I’m afraid the viscount will be disappointed,” Sherlock said as he offered her his arm, “since I am claiming you for the next two dances.”

Dr. Hooper assessed him for a moment then nodded and took his arm, smiling. “Very well, Mr. Holmes, but three dances is the limit.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, waving his free hand in dismissal as he led her back inside. “More than that with the same partner is scandalous, do not remind me.”

She grinned at him and he knew he would enjoy their next two dances immensely.

* * *

It was just after dawn when Sherlock and John stumbled into their sitting room.

“No wonder high society stays in bed all morning,” John muttered as he gingerly lowered himself onto the settee. “If I stayed up all night like that regularly, I’d want to sleep all morning too.” Too many flutes of champagne and glasses of port had caught up to him.

Sherlock was also drunk, but not on alcohol. “Watson,” he said as he headed for the fireplace and his morning pipe, “how does one go about romancing a young lady?”

John immediately sat up then winced when the action worsened his headache. “Is this for a case?”

“In a way,” Sherlock said evasively as he lit his pipe.

“Holmes…”

He smirked at his flatmate and best friend. “You see, Watson, Dr. Margaret Hooper has stolen my heart.”

John raised his eyes heavenward. “Thank the Good Lord!”


End file.
